Opening Cinematic Script
(Visuals: Grand, ornate maps and ledgers are spread across a massive mahogany table. The room is opulent, overlooking a busy harbor in Amn. Three men—obese, jeweled, and utterly bored—sit in heavy, velvet chairs.)
VOICE 1 (The Oligarch):
(A sigh, wet and theatrical) I tell you, Lord Tarkleigh, there is no sport left. The coffers overflow, our armies starve for a proper skirmish... even the wine is dull.
VOICE 2 (Tarkleigh):
(A low, rasping voice) Conquest is a delicate flower, Ramsay, best enjoyed when freshly plucked. And I propose the juiciest plum: The Isle of the Whispering Reef.
(Visuals: A quick, dramatic camera pan to a small, isolated island on a stylized map. The ocean around it is turbulent and stained with a dark, almost sickly green.)
VOICE 3 (The Elder):
(Sharp, dismissive) That cursed rock? It's already claimed by the Bitch Queen. Umberlee will not suffer the banners of Amn to fly over her tide-pools.
VOICE 2 (Tarkleigh):
Then we make it a wager! The first of us to plant a permanent, flourishing settlement... takes a 10% share of the loser's shipping routes for a decade. The cost of a few lost caravels is a trifle for such a prize!
(Visuals: A rapid-fire montage of spectacular maritime failure. Massive, proud Amnian warships—sailing under the banner of the Oligarchs—are suddenly met with towering, unnatural waves. Ships are seen being tossed onto a jagged, white-capped reef as if by an invisible, colossal hand. The faint, echoing sound of a deep, mocking female laugh can be heard over the crashing waves.)
NARRATOR:
They failed. Every opulent galley, every hired mercenary company, every gilded fool who tried to tame the Bitch Queen's rage. Yet, a few—the lowest dregs, the lucky few who clung to flotsam—crawled ashore.
(Visuals: The island is now shown. It is lush but dark. A rudimentary settlement is formed from salvaged wood. Smoke rises, but it’s not inviting. Shadows seem to move in the periphery.)
NARRATOR:
A settlement was born of desperation. But desperation breeds madness. Rumors of cult activity, bizarre rituals, and unnatural murders began to bleed back to the mainland. The Oligarchs, suddenly invested in saving face, saw an opportunity.
(Visuals: Interior shot of a smoky, low-lit tavern. The player character (you) is leaning on the bar, looking formidable but resistant. One of the Oligarchs is beside you, pressing a heavy purse into your hand.)
OLIGARCH (Close-Up):
We need a guard. An investigator. Someone mad enough, or drunk enough, to go where our armies could not. We’ll pay you three times your usual fee.
YOU:
(A single word, firm and sober) No.
(Visuals: A jump-cut to a table piled high with empty tankards and bottles of expensive, exotic liquor. Your head is resting in a mess of spilled wine. The Oligarch grins triumphantly and waves a newly signed contract.)
NARRATOR:
It appears your resolve, much like the seaworthiness of their fleet, was not up to the task. You woke up a rich man—and a newly contracted fool.
(Visuals: The final scene. Your ship—a small, quick caravel—is shown in a violent storm, listing wildly. The camera dips beneath the water to show the jagged, unforgiving reef rushing toward the hull.)
NARRATOR:
Of course, Umberlee has a sense of humor. Your ship found the reef just like all the others. But you... you survived. Now, washed ashore on an island of madmen and murderers, the Oligarchs' trinket is your prison.
(Visuals: FADE TO BLACK. The sounds of waves, distant howling, and the creak of ruined wood remain.)
